Four hours later, feeling as if she had been put in a barrel and hammered up and down, they were sliding down the last of dozens of hills into a narrow glen. She had discovered what a trot was, and didn’t like it. Fortunately, when they were going at the right pace Broomy had a gait called a “rack” which was much smoother. She’d also, when they hit the upper moorlands, discovered what a canter was. That was smoother, but as she had been warned, frightening. And exhilarating at the same time. She had had a hard time staying on the horse and as the rocks of the moorland, which was beautiful as far as she could notice, had flashed by she had wondered if she was going to end her adventure with her head dashed out on one of them. But just as she thought she was sure to go pitching headlongÑher thigh muscles had long since turned to jelly and there was no way she could grip with her legsÑMcClure had slowed them back down to a walk as they reached another narrow defile.
As they had been going down the defile she felt as if there were eyes watching her and she noticed the riders, and their horses, were skittish.
“It’s the wee folk, lassy,” McClure had said, not bothering to look around. “They hold the true highlands. It’s one of the reasons the orcs don’t come over them.”
“They live up here?” Megan asked, looking around at the apparently deserted landscape.
“Aye,” Jock said, shrugging. “They say it’s the only bit that’s high enough to breathe. You’d think they lived on rocks but they run a few scrubby cattle and do a bit of hunting. And they trade, services, for one thing,” he added, gesturing at Baradur. He had kept up the whole time, seeming to be barely tired by the trip. When they cantered, despite his statement that he did not ride, he had thrown himself up on the saddle behind her and, truth be told, kept her on the horse as much as anything.
“And they’re not averse to a bit of banditry,” McClure -continued, darkly. “There’s more than one reason that we’ve a group this large for the trip.”
She looked down at her bodyguard who grinned without looking up.
“Lovely,” she said, shaking her head.
The moorland had been the only reasonably flat portion of the journey. They had gone up and down for the entire rest of the four hoursÑthe whole time seeing no signs of life except the rough track and, once, a covey of pheasant that had broken into the air as they passedÑand she thought that if they didn’t reach their destination soon she was going to have to ask for a rest.
But as they turned the shoulder of a hill she could see another castle, larger than McClure’s, at the head of the glen.
“Innes?” she gasped, grasping at Broomy’s mane as she slipped in the seat. Riding downhill, she had discovered, was much harder than uphill.
“Aye,” McClure said.
“Big castle,” Megan said. “Small glen.”
“This is only one of six that Innes controls,” McClure answered. “Two others are larger, one as large as Glen McClure. One of them’s on the front lines with the orcs. But it’s two ridges away from here. They lost one in the early days, took it back for a while, then lost it again. Be careful with Innes, lassie. He’s a fine man but proud and he’s a Stuart on his mother’s side.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s a descendant of Bonnie Charlie,” McClure said, as if that answered the question.
“I’m still not following,” Megan said, unsure if this was something that should be common knowledge.
“Charles the First,” McClure said, shaking his head. “Arguably a man with a better claim to the throne of England than the ones that held it in the seventeenth century. King of the Scots, the Gael, for that matter. He wants to unite the Gael and retake Briton from Chansa. It’d be Culloden for sure was he to try. We can hold them in the Highlands, but get us down in the Lows and we’ll be wheat to the scythe.”
One of the group of soldiers began whistling, a haunting melody that caught at her mind. Others were singing low.
“Burned are our homes, exile and death, scattered the loyal men.
“Yet e’er the sword, cool in the sheath, Charlie will come again.”
“What’s that mean?” Megan asked, haunted by the words.
“It’s called ‘Isle of Skye,’ ” McClure said, shrugging. “From when Charlie was forced to flee for his life. For a long time the Scots thought that Charlie would return. He’d led a force down into Briton to reclaim the throne. Took a fair bit of land. Then he overextended himself. His force was trapped and slaughtered at Culloden Field. Then the Brits came in and emptied the glens, the first modern genocide, ethnocide really, in history. They killed every male that had anything to do with the uprising, forced all the farmers out, exiled half the population, enlisted the men in their armies and sent them overseas to die. The British Empire became one of the largest ever to rule on earth, but it was done with the Blood of the Gael. Three Charles lived in France as a government in exile, then they faded away.”
“Does Innes sing ‘Isle of Skye’?” Megan asked.
“No,” McClure said, darkly. “’Isle of Skye’ is about losing. The men of Innes sing the Bonnie Charlie song.”
McClure grinned wickedly and nodded at a rider with a horn.
“Sound the horn, me bucko,” he yelled.
“O! Charlie is my darlin’ my darlin’ my darlin’
“Charlie is my darlin’ the young cavalier!”
Malcolm Innes was tall and fair with blond hair that reached nearly to his waist, a chiseled chin and bright blue eyes. Looking at him Megan couldn’t believe that there was anything in his head at all. But she found herself wrong.
“McClure thinks I’m mad,” Malcolm said, gesturing with his chin at the older laird. They had retired to the local laird’s office and sat by the fire sipping warmed mead as Megan’s legs screamed in agony. Her feet were resting on the side of one of the largest dogs she had ever seen, nearly the size of a pony. Its shaggy fur was twined in her toes. This dog, along with a group of others, had followed them into the room and flopped down at her feet. She had propped them up when she saw the others do so. “That I’ve gone off my rocker with being a descendant of Charles the First. Don’t tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re not,” McClure said, taking a sip of mead. “But it’s a Gael madness and for that I forgive you.”
“I don’t think I can retake Briton,” Innes said, grinning and leaning forward, tight as a spring as he presented his case. “Or set myself up as king. Yet. And I know I can’t without the aid of Norau. But I can bring in the allegiance of ten clans, all of them blooded in war. I’ve more cavalry than anyone in the highlands. I’ve more supplies than anyone in the highlands. My men are better trained and better equipped because I can recycle them off the line. If Norau wants to retake Briton, and they’ll need it as a jumping off point for an invasion of Ropasa, they’ll need my help. And if they’re on my side, I can bring in all the clans. This pretense of being Charlie’s heir seems crazy, but like McClure said it’s a Gael madness; the Highlands will follow a Stuart, especially if it means retaking the throne that was stolen from us.”
“That was…” Megan did the math in her head. “What? Three thousand years ago give or take a few centuries?”